


A Sweeter Paradise

by passthevoxcord



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Relationships, Blood and Gore, Canon Asexual Character, Dark Past, Eventual Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magic, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spitroasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passthevoxcord/pseuds/passthevoxcord
Summary: Hell is under new management. Vox's plan to kill the other overlords has proven successful. Alastor knows he's the only one left. He has no issue with finally shutting Vox and Val up for good, but there is something standing in his way—the one thing he's come to hold most dear. Angel.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 303





	1. Chapter 1

After all this time, Alastor didn’t need to be told; he knew when something bad was on the horizon.

Not that Hell _had_ a horizon, but its dismal ceiling had been a hideous muddy crimson for days. Alastor generally enjoyed gazing up and basking in the glow of this scarlet underworld, when it was bright and hot as a fresh wound, but this was different. He hadn’t forgotten what clouds heavy with rain looked like, and that foreboding weight hung above them all now. A storm was coming.

He flexed his hands where he’d clasped them at the small of his back. Even when the others were all gathered in the lobby, he preferred to observe. He stood by this window, usually, and alternated between staring outside and watching over this little motley crew he’d helped assemble. He knew Charlie would prefer him to be more involved with their socializing, and he _had_ in the beginning, but lately . . . He just felt off.

He flexed his hands again. The lights overhead flickered, just a little, but even that felt wrong. A bit delayed, a bit distant. The power that should have been so ever-present was just—not.

He’d heard plenty of superstitious folk, being from New Orleans, talk about ley lines. Invisible veins crisscrossing the world, full of flowing energy that you could tap into, if you were open and clever. Hell was like a ley line in itself. Power was everywhere, if you were tuned to the right channel.

For the first time in years, it felt like someone else was on the same frequency.

The problem wasn’t that, however. The problem was that he actually viewed it as a problem. Before, he would have looked forward to a disturbance like this. A new horror approaching meant a new source of entertainment. A new opportunity to take a sip of suffering. Somewhere, a fellow overlord was using their power and that meant a bloodbath Alastor should have been happy to splash in.

But he wasn’t. He was thinking that it was best he stayed here, so he could defend the vulnerable group within this hotel’s walls. He was thinking where best to send them, if things became so dire that he had to open an evacuationary rift. He was thinking, in the very back of his mind, that Angel was not here.

Angel was not in trouble. Alastor knew he wasn’t, because if he was he would have sensed it by now. Angel was the only member of their party who regularly left the hotel grounds for long periods of time. As far as Valentino was concerned, Angel was still his property and belonged in his studio. That didn’t stop the pimp from using Angel for money when things got tight, however, nor did it stop Angel himself from sneaking out to spend time in the hotel. Which was how their arrangement had been born.

Alastor had told him in a rather roundabout way. There was no need for Angel to be risking himself, he pointed out, when there was a much simpler way of going about things. Angel hadn’t understood what he was talking about until he laid it out in plain terms: Alastor would create a reusable rift, a portal, for Angel to pass through between his room at the hotel and his plush chamber in the studio. Of course, it couldn’t stay open at all times—not that Alastor wasn’t powerful enough to fuel something like that, naturally, but Valentino would surely discover it. Overlords could always sniff out traces of each other’s magic, even the ones pampered into numbness like Val. So Angel had what he called his _doodad._

( _Ha, ya get it? ’Cause you’re a daddy I wanna do. Ha. So funny you forgot to laugh, huh?_ )

In truth, it didn’t need to be a physical object, but Alastor didn’t trust Angel to have the self-discipline it took to use your mind for magic. Angel seemed only capable of having a thousand thoughts a second and no thoughts at all, and that didn’t make for a good spiritual connection to otherworldly forces. So Alastor had crafted the _doodad_ , which was a tiny little button hidden in the knot of Angel’s bowtie. He’d first wanted to disguise it as one of the buttons on his jacket, but Angel had rejected that idea. ( _No can do on that one, sweet thing. Occupational hazard._ ) Alastor could go days and days without ever thinking about the specifics of how Angel made a living, and then it would creep up on him and kick him in the teeth.

He wasn’t jealous. He was just . . .

He would prefer to keep all of his things in one place.

But this, all of this, should not have been in his head. No other overlord spent time with regular demons, unless they were fucking them or killing them or both. They considered themselves high society, and up until a few weeks ago Alastor had agreed. He’d had no trouble shrugging off the last shreds of his humanity like a woefully tattered coat. But now—

For a split second, a flash blinded him. Barely a second after, thunder crashed so loudly the paintings rattled where they hung on the walls and Charlie gave a shriek. Alastor stood frozen, torn, tempted to turn but just as compelled to remain staring out the window. The sky was a blackened bruise. What was happening?

Charlie screamed again, raw this time. Not afraid. Agonized. Alastor whirled.

Vaggie was holding her arms, pleading. Husk was still seated, but his wings were bristled in alarm. Niffty ran in circles around them all, trying desperately to right this wrong when she had no idea how. And Charlie herself was trembling, tears streaking her face, head shaking back and forth in desperate denial. When she saw Alastor watching, she flung an arm out to him as if she could reach him all the way across the room. She was sobbing too hard to speak, but her face said: _Please._

“What are you doing to her?” Vaggie demanded. “Help her!”

“Don’t just fuckin’ stand there,” Husk said, at last moved to speak.

Alastor’s shadow stretched over to them and he stepped into its place, gone-and-back in an instant. He could see, if he properly Looked, the invisible tendrils of magic that had wrapped themselves almost entirely around Charlie. They wanted to take her, but they were strengthened by love, not malice. This was a protective hex, a ward. What overlord would ever put a ward on Charlie?

Her parents.

Which meant something far more terrible than Alastor had imagined was happening.

“Let it take you,” Alastor said at last. “It only hurts because you fight it.”

“Don’t listen to him,” snarled Vaggie, and raised a hand as if to grab him. “What is—”

Alastor caught her wrist without looking at her. She didn’t wince, but her eyes flashed a shade brighter. His grip was iron, but it wouldn’t harm her. “It’s the work of your parents,” he told Charlie, whose knees were sure to buckle any second. He was genuinely impressed she’d resisted this long, but then again, she would inherit all her parents’ power one day. Perhaps sooner than they’d thought. “It will take you somewhere safe. Go, my dear.” He put on a smile for her. “I’ll sort things out in the meantime.”

She was beyond words. All she had left was her gaze, and it went from Alastor to Vaggie before welling up with fresh tears which fell as she at last closed her eyes and surrendered. She vanished in a second, without leaving even a scuff in the carpet behind.

Vaggie tore her arm from Alastor’s grasp. “Where did she go?”

“I don’t know,” Alastor replied truthfully. He doubted he could figure it out if he dedicated a decade. This was pristine magic from the most powerful overlord in hell. Though he wouldn’t care to admit it, it was far beyond his capabilities.

“If they sent her away, that means something happened to them,” Vaggie said, already pacing. Her face was fierce, but her arms were hugged round herself. She had a formidable personality when defending her love, but without Charlie she was nothing. And, compared to the power of an overlord, she was even less than that.

Alastor twisted his hand. Vaggie, Husk, and Niffty vanished. Tiny trails of red-tinted smoke lifted from the patches of burnt carpet where they’d been standing. They would be safe, at least for the time being.

Thunder roared again and he glanced up. Blood rain hurled against the windows, spattering and collecting thickly on the sills. The whole world was the color of death. Alastor’s microphone appeared and he thumped it to the floor, to steady himself.

Angel was still out there.


	2. Chapter 2

The floor was covered in viscera, intestines had been strung from the ceiling like streamers and over the windows like tinsel, two heads sat on pikes as the centrepiece of the banquet table, the turncoat lackeys were bobbing for fingers in a bowl of blood, and the most disgusting thing about all of it was the way the overlords were dancing.

Angel couldn’t get over it: they were all at least twice his age, and none of them could dance to save their lives. Vox was blaring his godforsaken electronica from a massive sound system he’d sourced from thin air, and some of these rich assholes were _waltzing_ to it. Vox himself was relying mostly on his dick to move this way and that; Angel could only hope all the hip thrusting from the TV Demon would make him a bit less randy when their celebrations moved back to the studio.

Yes, they were celebrating. Congratulating themselves on the successful murder of the king and queen of Hell. Angel knew he should have felt bad about it, but he mostly didn’t; he’d never spoken to those two heads, now with plates of gelatin on either side rather than shoulders. They’d never done anything for him, either. He was more inclined to say _fuck ’em_ , if anybody cared to ask.

But Charlie, was the thing. These were her parents, _were_ being the operative word. He’d been worried, when he first stepped out of Val’s limo, that he was about to walk in on something unspeakable happening to one of the only people who actually showed him kindness down here. But he hadn’t seen nor heard anything of her tonight. _She’s safe,_ he told himself, for the tenth time in as many minutes. _She’s with Al. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her._

Alastor was the only overlord not present for this. Angel didn’t have to wonder why he hadn’t been invited. He would have said no, for one thing . . . right? Right. And he would’ve told Charlie about it, probably, for another. And besides, all of them hated Alastor. Vox especially, and by the way he was strutting Angel could only assume he’d been leading the charge.

“You like this, Angel Cakes?” Valentino asked, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and grinning down at Angel. Smoke drifted between his teeth. “Bet you wish you coulda seen it.”

They’d arrived well after the excitement. Angel had been about to sneak out, actually; he’d thought things had wound down for the night. But then Valentino had come barging into his room, stuck his tongue down Angel’s throat, and said, _Get your sweet little ass in the car, baby. Daddy’s taking you to a party._

And not just Angel. There was plenty of eye candy here, whores and pornstars alike. Angel hadn’t seen any outright sex yet, just some heavy petting so far, but he wouldn’t be surprised if this turned into a full-on orgy before midnight struck. Blood was only half of bloodlust, after all, and there was no saying _no_ to an overlord.

“Yeah,” Angel said, taking Valentino’s cigarette and sucking on it. He blew smoke just shy of Val’s face. “This makes me wet. Actually, just my shoes. On account of the blood all over the fuckin’ floor.”

Valentino kept two arms around Angel while another adjusted his heart-shaped glasses and the other plucked the cigarette from Angel’s hand. “No sass in public,” he said, with just a hint of an edge to his voice. That was all he needed. He practically swallowed the rest of the cigarette and blew little puffs of smoke in exactly the shape of his lenses. They floated around Angel’s face and Val gave him that curling smile. This was the sort of thing that made Angel fall for him, once. Now he knew better. Too little, too late, as always. “You should be happy, baby. I’m movin’ up in the world. Hell’s under new management, and I’m the CEO.”

Angel doubted Val even knew what CEO stood for, but he had bigger things to worry about. Without the king and queen, who _would_ be in charge of everything? Who was the most powerful demon now? Overlords were always hesitant to fight each other, from what Angel had seen. They were like all those big predators in Africa, lions and leopards and hyenas. They could all kill each other under the right circumstances, but you could never be sure who would come out the victor until the very end. None of them wanted to risk that. And none of them liked each other enough to make alliances this serious, or at least that’s what Angel had assumed. But here were all the overlords of Hell in one room, drunk off their successful hunt. As far as Angel was concerned, this was unprecedented. So where did that leave _him_?

And where did it leave Alastor?

The song changed to something that actually had a melody, and Valentino’s arms tightened around Angel. “C’mon, gorgeous,” he said, lips against Angel’s temple, “dance with me.”

_Dance with me._

“No,” Angel said, but he knew he couldn’t leave it there. He turned in Val’s arms and wrapped his own around him, one set to hold him and one set reaching up to frame his face. Even through Angel’s gloves, the pimp’s face felt tacky, grippy like sharkskin. Once Valentino had you, it was hard to get away. Angel might weave webs of seduction, but Val was a different type of arachnid. He clung and bit and sucked you dry. He was a fucking tick.

“Nah,” Angel said, softer now, with that sultry duck to his voice that made even his fellow pornstars flutter a little when he used it on set. “I don’t wanna show off for anybody else, Daddy. Just you.”

“What_aboUt.me?”

Unlike Alastor’s voice, which was something you could _hear_ almost within your own head no matter where he happened to be in the room, Vox’s voice was something you felt. It prickled over your skin like tiny sparks of electricity. Angel had never heard Vox shouting, but he’d felt his hatefucking, and it was like being struck by—

The lights flickered, on-off-on-off, overhead, and in the moments of darkness Angel saw lightning flash through the windows. He couldn’t remember the last time there’d been a storm. He hated blood rain. It spoiled perfectly good suits.

Vox shoved his way between Valentino and Angel, throwing his arms around both of them and grinning down from his screen. “C0ngRatulate-me,” he said grandly. No matter how much autotune he put on, though, he still had the faint hiss of VHS static. “Th3_first.haLf_went.0ff-wiTHout/a-h1tch.”

Val was just smirking, but Angel felt cold dread trickle into his stomach. “The first half?” he asked hesitantly, a hand on Vox’s chest just to keep things regular. He could feel a slight quiver in each breath. Vox was positively radiating energy, but he didn’t look any different. He was just like . . .

He was like a lion, looking over at the leopards and hyenas and tensing his muscles. The time for roars was over. He was ready to pounce at any second.

“0f-course,” Vox replied. “Th1S-was-a_doUble/fEatur3.”

Angel glanced at Valentino again, but he only had eyes for Vox. The pair had always been close, but Angel had never seen Val looking at Vox like _that_ when they were in anyone else’s company. That look was more than just an alliance. Things were changing tonight, and Angel didn’t think they were for the better.

“Oh,” he said, keeping his voice light. He was an actor, after all. “When does the second half start?”

Vox’s grin flickered out, replaced by a black screen with only **After These Messages** written across in green DOS fashion. Angel didn’t have time to wonder why Vox would put the most basic thing he possibly could on his screen. He didn’t have time to consider that it was probably because Vox was no longer paying attention to his image. He didn’t have time to realize that Val had said CEO, not owner.

In less than a second, Vox removed a soulless black pistol from his suit jacket and fired it six times into Velvet. She collapsed and he walked over, calm as you please, and fired six more times. Then six more. Then six more.

He was still firing, in fact, when Valentino and Angel were safe in the back of the limo and all the other overlords had flown the coop as well. Most of them had teleported. Val was the only one _riding in style_ , as he called it. Angel wasn’t sure why Valentino never used magic like the others. He wasn’t sure of anything, right about now.

Velvet had been Vox’s friend, too. Or Angel thought she was. What did Angel know about anything? He was just a whore. He was just a bit of fluff between their fingers, a bit of sugar on their tongue. He was nothing.

Valentino slid a hand up Angel’s skirt as he lit another cigarette with two others.

Vox appeared in the seat across from them after a minute. He was even more covered in blood than Angel and Val. He had a couple rips in his suit, and Angel wondered how much of a fight Velvet had given him. It was clear she was dead. There was no point in asking.

Vox’s sigh was harsh in Angel’s ears, synthesized to the point of crackling. “AnGEl.”

Angel stifled a sigh of his own and moved into Vox’s lap. His suit was already ruined, anyway. He brought up four hands, so he could wipe the blood off Vox’s screen all at once. It revealed Vox’s LED eyes and that unmoving grin, filling the back of the limo with an unsettling blue glow. Vox leaned closer and a wet kiss sound effect played, followed by Vox’s CRT-buzz chuckle.

As Vox and Val’s hands reached for him, Angel just kept his eyes on his own. His gloves, the bright pink that had always made him happy, were now the ugly blackened red of death.


	3. Chapter 3

The storm was getting worse.

Alastor couldn’t wait any longer. Angel still hadn’t called for him, and none of the hotel staff had tried to return from where he’d put them. Hopefully, they were all just staying put, where it was safe.

Alastor narrowed his eyes. He’d protected them to the best of his ability, had he not? He’d done more than was expected of him, all things considered. He didn’t need to hide on this night, of all nights. When had he ever cared that something dangerous was afoot?

Hell was a drawer of knives, and he was the sharpest.

So he struck out into the night. Blood rain pelted him, but he ignored it. It should have been too dark for a shadow, but there was always hellfire to be had, and the gaudy neon provided light enough once he got into the deeper city. Demons were clawing and fighting each other, crazed by the overpowering scent of sinners’ blood, but Alastor brushed past them. They knew better than to touch him; his suit was red, red, red even before he stepped out into this literal hellscape.

He’d been inside the castle only a couple times in his years. Never for any amount of time. Mostly for meetings with the king, during which they both spoke in soft tones and sipped bitter tea as the radio crooned. All of it said what the king didn’t need to: _You won’t be bothering me and my family._ And Alastor’s willingness to show his face here, to play nice, said what he didn’t: _No, I haven’t gotten that bored yet._

And now he stood in front of the king’s decapitated head.

“Hm.” Alastor adjusted his monocle and twirled his fingers; his suit cleaned itself of blood in an instant. One couldn’t be dishevelled before royalty. “I’ll miss our little talks, Your Majesty.”

The heads weren’t really looking at him. Their eyes had been gouged out long ago.

He turned, walking through the ballroom and observing the carnage. Blood, guts, bones. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. He would admit, demons were much more entertaining to kill than humans. There was so much variety. You kill one human, you’ve killed them all—not that he’d stopped at one . . .

He halted.

Velvet lay at his feet. White dress ravaged, torn and bloodstained. Vox and Val’s favorite girl, and here she was. Murdered before she could even fully shift to the war form, her huge hair pooled around her, wicked claws bursting from her hands without rhyme or reason. A dead woman with a handful of knives, her face shot clean off.

Not that there was anything clean about it.

The sound of static drowned out the downpour against the windows. Alastor cleared his throat and it stopped, but his heart was still racing.

This, the defeat of Velvet, was far more alarming than the king’s death. A mutiny against the monarchy was one thing. The killing of a fellow overlord, a supposed equal in their territorial squabbles over the Pentagram, was something else entirely. If this was the beginning of a pattern . . . if someone was hunting overlords . . .

For a normal demon, it took a lot to kill someone down here.

For an overlord, it was just a matter of wanting it bad enough.

No wonder he’d been feeling the drain. No wonder the _sky was bleeding._ The magic levels of hell were eating themselves. Overlords were dying. How would this end?

_This would make for quite a show._

Alastor turned his back on Velvet’s corpse, but it was no use. He couldn’t look anywhere in this room without seeing this mess. Perhaps it had just been too long since he went on a spree, but all of this—the smell, the blood, the _claws_ —was taking him back to somewhere he did not, ever, want to go.

He could still remember the smell of his own blood, the teeth, the growls . . .

He slammed his microphone to the floor. It crackled at him. He would not think about this. He would not go back. He would not allow himself to do this. He was ruining it, where _it_ was everything, by letting his heart be laid so bare. First he was worried for others. Now he was _remembering._ He was the Radio Demon. He was the host of one thousand demises. He would not let this get to him.

_Alastor._

Angel was calling to him. The relief clouded his heart like a curse.

His shadow leapt and he vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh, yeah, take it,” Valentino growled, with a slap to Angel’s ass for emphasis. “That’s right, baby, squeeze it.”

Angel clenched around the pimp and winced as Vox gave a particularly hard thrust into his mouth. He’d had abundant practise in the art of opening himself, allowing his body to stretch and take all that was given to it. It was a vital part of his job, and an ability he was usually proud of possessing. But when it was these two on either end of him, fucking their way straight through him, it just felt dirty.

“$ucK,” Vox hissed, backing off so Angel could fit his lips around his cockhead and tongue the slit. Angel closed his eyes in an attempt to distract himself from the taste; it was like an old fork, the metallic burn of raw metal. It was _skin_ , but that hardly mattered. It was tingling with a current that would zap Angel when he really got going and leave his mouth sore for hours afterward.

Angel was pretty sure Alastor could tell when he’d been fucked by Vox. He’d greet Angel with the usual smile, but if Angel got close enough it would harden and his eyes would go just that little bit darker. Could he smell Vox on him? Or had he just learned the signs?

In the beginning, Angel hadn’t liked that Alastor could read him so well. Now, things were different. He enjoyed Alastor’s company in a different manner than Cherri or Charlie or anybody else he graced with his presence. Alastor was a constant in a way no one else was. No matter where you were or what you’d done, if you turned on the radio, it would play for you.

Of course, in the _very_ beginning, Angel hadn’t even known Alastor existed. He’d dropped into hell with nothing but a broken heart and an addiction to his namesake. He didn’t know what else to do, so he did what he’d done during the past year of his human life: he sold himself to whoever was willing to pay. He didn’t know anything about the territorial rules of the Pentagram, back then. He didn’t know he was working a beat that belonged to Val’s whores. It was an immense kindness, in truth, that Valentino hadn’t just killed him for encroaching on his business. Val sent some goons out to bring Angel up to his office, and even with the dirt and grime of street life muddying his fur, Val had looked at Angel and grinned. _You know what you got, kid? Potential. I think you and I can make ourselves a deal. What do you say?_

Angel had agreed. He wasn’t an idiot, nor did he have any pride. That was something Alastor would give him, and something that would weaken him as a result. Did cockroaches have pride? No, and they didn’t go around getting themselves killed, either.

After Valentino got Angel all cleaned up and fluffy, and bought him a closet full of sexy pink clothes, there was only one thing left to do. Val hadn’t brought anyone in; he produced his last gift from thin air, pure magic that up until then Angel had never seen before. In the pimp’s gloved palm was a single golden tooth. He peeled Angel’s lips back with two of his hands and stuck the tooth in with his remaining pair, an invasion that Angel remembered feeling unnecessarily rough. How sweet, he thought now, to think _that_ was rough from Val. Finally, the pimp pulled back and spun Angel so they both looked into the mirror, Val standing a full head taller than him. His fingers remained in Angel’s mouth, tugging a too-wide grin onto his face. _Look at us,_ he said, his own gold tooth gleaming. _Matchy-matchy, baby._

Vox was filling the whole room with moans and groans now. Angel’s room had to be soundproofed because of it; when the TV demon got going, he started playing layer upon layer of porn audio. Sometimes it was deafening, with screams that sounded more like pain than pleasure. Angel didn’t know if they were videos he was watching to heighten his arousal or just an overflowing of his horniness, but tonight it just gave him a headache.

“Make me fuckin’ come,” Val snarled, gripping his hips tight enough to bruise. His fur would hide it, thankfully. “Milk me, baby, I’m— _fuck_ —”

Valentino laid himself over Angel’s back, pounding into him and grabbing for Vox. Angel barely caught a glimpse of what they were doing—not kissing, because Vox had no lips, but resting their foreheads together—before he was crushed between them, unable to even bob his head. It didn’t matter, though.

Vox came with a surge that electrified Angel from head to toe, branding the tender tunnel of his throat. Unlike Val, he didn’t make a sound; when Angel was allowed to go limp and disengage from both demons, he saw Vox was leaning forward, hands supporting his weight on the edge of the bed, his screen blank.

“Voxy,” said Valentino, slipping into his afterglow as he sprawled over the bed. “Come back to me, baby.”

It took a couple flickers, but Vox’s screen came back on, his bluelight grin wide as ever. He tucked his dick back into his trousers and, at Val’s silent insistence, joined them on the bed. Angel curled up between them as they both stroked his fluff, doing his best to ignore the half-mast erection still throbbing sadly against his thighs. Sometimes they made sure he came; sometimes it was up to him. Tonight, with all the stress of the day, he just wasn’t up to it.

The storm was still raging outside the studio. Angel had been spoiled, thinking he knew where he stood for so long. The truth was you never really had that luxury in Hell, no matter how good you thought you might have it. Just because he was the apple of Val’s eye—or so everyone said—didn’t mean he was safe by default in this new world Vox was creating.

“Daddy,” Angel mumbled, as if through a sleepy haze.

“Mmm.” Val didn’t lift his head from Vox’s shoulder. “What’s a matter, Angie?”

_Don’t call me that. My friends call me that._ He nuzzled into Val’s abdomen. He wasn’t rigid, like Vox. He was actually almost pudgy, under all those frills and feathers. A result of his laziness, making money off other people’s hard work.

“You’re the CEO,” Angel said, twirling his fingers through the pimp’s chest hair. He shaved his head, but nothing else. “But what about me?”

Canned laughter played and Vox gave the fluffy swell of Angel’s chest a squeeze. “WhAT_y0u.waNt-a/PR0mot1oN?”

Angel looked up at Vox with doe eyes he’d perfected in the heart-shaped mirror across the room. “No, sir.” This was the safest course of action. It was up to the overlords to decide if he was serious or sarcastic in his submission. “I just . . . I dunno, you guys’ll be all big and mighty and all, I dunno if I’m good enough for ya . . .”

Vox’s screen flickered to an image of a puppy licking a kitten, complete with a studio audience _AWWW._

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that,” Valentino said, slicing his fingers through Angel’s hair. He’d kept his gloves on, thankfully. Angel hated the feeling of claws on his scalp. “I’d never get rid of my Angel.”

 _I’m not your Angel._ He tipped his head back to kiss Val’s hand. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Go to sleep, baby.” Val put a hand over his face and escorted Angel’s head to the pillows. Not forcing, but as always—there was no saying _no._ “You gotta get your beauty sleep. Been a long day for ya.”

“Night-night,” Angel murmured, letting his eyelids drift shut.

“Sw33T/dReAms,” Vox said, closer to the hiss of speaker feedback than an affectionate whisper.

Angel lay with his eyes lightly closed and, over the course of several moments, let his face slacken and his breaths grow even. He was only in porn these days, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t had dreams before. His family only supported the acting if he was using it to lie to rival gangs; they wouldn’t have been proud to see him on a stage or in a film. They weren’t proud of him at all, in the end. But those were thoughts he couldn’t bear to have, and couldn’t _afford_ to have right now. If he started crying, this opportunity was wasted.

There was a chance Vox and Val were not arrogant enough to talk about their plans in the company of a whore. But Val was even lazier after the endorphins of orgasm went through him, and besides: Angel was just that. A whore. There was only one hole in his head they were concerned about.

“So who’s next?” asked Valentino. You could hear the cigarettes, when he spoke this low.

“R0S1e.” Vox’s synthetic voice didn’t lower in volume so much as lessened its layers. There was never any one voice supplying his words; he stole from all sorts of media, movies and shows and commercials, sometimes even songs if they tickled his fancy. 

When you got right down to it, Alastor was the only overlord who _created._

“Careful with the teeth.”

“DoN’t.w0Rry-AB0uT_M3.” Lying this close to him, Angel could see the code of Vox’s speech flashing across the backs of his eyes, technicolor shadows. “YoU’rE.my.CoNc3Rn.”

“Aw, Voxy Baby. Ain’t you sweet.”

“VA1.”

“Listen, I’ve been meanin’ to tell you about this. I want us to be honest with each other, right? If we’re gonna do this, I don’t want any secrets.”

“T3Ll_me.”

“. . . He’s mine.”

“Y0U-meAn—”

“Yeah.”

 _What?_ Angel had to work harder to keep his face light. What were they talking about?

“. . . 0KaY.”

“I’ll lock him in for the rest of the night. You’ll be done by morning, won’t you?”

“IF_i.LeaV3-noW.”

“Then get out there and take over the world for me, baby.”

Angel heard the sound of lips against a screen, and a CRT buzz edging Vox’s pleased hum. “F1ftY-fIfTy.”

“Matchy, matchy, baby.”


	5. Chapter 5

Angel’s eyes flicked open.

Vox’s weight had disappeared from the bed with the abruptness of teleportation and Valentino had risen languidly, stretching and zipping his pants back up before swanning out of the room.

Angel waited until he heard the door close and its trio of locks click. Then he hurried silently to his en suite and cleaned himself up. Normally he would take the time to perfect his look and ensure he smelt of bubblegum, but he couldn’t bear to be here any longer than he had to. Vox was back on the hunt. Rosie was next, but who knew how long that would take him? Angel had to get out of here. Alastor . . .

Angel tugged on a fresh outfit. His bowtie went on last, and he squeezed the doodad tight. _Alastor._

Normally it took some time, occasionally minutes if Alastor was busy with something else. Today, for the first time, it was immediate. A rift bloomed into the air, rippling red and purple, and through it Angel could see the now-familiar room he slept in at the hotel. And Alastor. Alastor was there. _He’s safe._

For now.

Angel jumped through and the rift furled away behind him. “Fuck,” he said, “I thought—”

Alastor’s intensity silenced him. The Radio Demon circled him, twice, eyes a brighter red than Angel had ever seen them. He wasn’t taking in the details of Angel’s body like a client would, but more like a doctor inspecting a patient. Ensuring Angel was as Alastor had last seen him. Assuring himself that not a single hair had been harmed on his head.

Despite the fear in it, Angel’s heart was still warmed.

“Vox is killing the other overlords,” Angel said, once Alastor seemed satisfied with his examination. “He started with the king—”

“I know,” Alastor said. “Charlie is safe. As are the others.”

Well, that was one thing he didn’t have to worry about, then. “He’s on the move,” Angel went on, imagining that bluelight grin and the hell-black revolver that had put Velvet down. “He said he was killing Rosie next.”

One of Alastor’s ears flicked toward the window and, a second later, they both watched lightning flash outside.

“It won’t take him long,” Alastor said, his voice surprisingly thin and peppered with crackles.

“. . . you can beat him, can’t you?” Angel asked, stepping closer. He knew Vox had a special sort of hate for Alastor, and he knew it was reflected with gusto. “You have to.”

Alastor looked at him in alarm. This was the longest Angel had seen him without his smile, and it was starting to get seriously unnerving. After all that had happened, this was the biggest sign that things were fucked: Alastor was staring at Angel with his mouth nothing more than a flat line.

“He’s working with Val,” Angel said, because the silence—well, silence aside from the steady untuned hum of Alastor’s radio—was too much. “You’ll have to stop him, too. But I know you’re stronger than him. He doesn’t use any of that magic stuff like you do.”

Alastor’s gaze had wandered, but now it snapped to Angel so sharply he almost staggered back. “Never?”

Angel’s mouth opened a while before any words came out. “Well, I-I never really see it, I mean . . .” His mind raced for something intelligent to add, something to help Alastor out here, and he recalled the bizarre exchange between Vox and Val. “But I heard him talking to Vox, just now, and he was sayin’ he didn’t want any secrets, and then he said I was his. But I dunno, he said it like it was important . . . why are you lookin’ at me like that . . .”

Because Alastor was definitely not smiling now. His face was devoid of any emotion, but his eyes—well, his eyes almost looked like they were afraid.

“You, my dear,” Alastor said, in a haunted tone that sent a shiver down Angel’s spine, “are a vassal.”

Angel wrapped his arms around himself. “A what now?”

Alastor’s grip tightened on his microphone and feedback buzzed. “It’s an old sort of magical arrangement. I didn’t realize there were overlords willing to risk it. To be as brief as is possible, it means he has placed his soul into you.”

Angel stared at him, then down at himself. “Uh . . .”

“ _Not_ like that,” Alastor said, a faint sneer baring some yellowed fangs. “In a purely spiritual sense. Having something else to store your soul in strips the overlord of his power, but supplies him with immortality. So, he cannot harm anyone, but he cannot be harmed himself, either.” He delicately picked a speck of lint from his suit. “It is not something I have ever had any interest in.”

 _I guess you wouldn’t._ Most overlords wouldn’t. Vox would never dream of a trade-off like that, either. How would he have any fun if he couldn’t fuck people up whenever he wanted? But Valentino was different. He didn’t care about drawing blood. He just wanted his life to be as cushy as possible.

“But . . . but . . .” Angel put two of his hands on his head. He was getting seriously overwhelmed now. “What does that mean? How do we get it out?”

“It means not I nor anyone else can defeat Val while you are his vassal.” Alastor still wasn’t looking at him. His attention was on the window, which had so much congealed blood on it now you could barely see out. “And, as far as I know, there are only two ways to remove a soul.”

_“How?”_ Angel demanded, stepping forward and grabbing Alastor’s shoulders.

Alastor stiffened under his touch but did not, after all their practise, jerk away. He simply moved his solemn gaze back to Angel and replied, “The owner of said soul simply removes it. Or.” He cleared his throat, and the humming finally stopped. “You kill the vassal.”

Angel listened to the rain for a long moment, and then he made a promise to himself.

_Whatever happens, I will not watch you die, Alastor._

“As far as you know,” he finally said. “Right? As far as you know, there’s only two ways. So we can still try something. Right? You got any ideas in that fuckin’ evil, handsome head a yours?”

Alastor’s brow furrowed slightly, but a small smile spread over his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Alastor took Angel to his bedroom. It had a door just like the rest, but it was up to Alastor whether or not that door would open to the true chamber. This magical separation wouldn’t keep them safe indefinitely if Vox came knocking, but it would at least give them time . . .

Saying goodbye at the end was the only part of radio he hated.

Angel had never been in here before—their little moments always happened in Angel’s room, where Alastor would wait until he’d fallen asleep before teleporting silently away—but he didn’t waste much time looking around. He just gave the unfamiliar room a quick glance before focusing on Alastor, his lower hands on his hips while his upper hands wrung themselves nervously.

“Okay,” he said. “Do your worst.”

Alastor gave a rueful smile. “Don’t tempt me, my dear.”

He enjoyed watching Angel suppress a shiver, then Looked at him. At its most basic, this was viewing the world through not his own eyes, but those of his shadow. One might call it a glimpse into the astral plane; Alastor had never put much care into the words for his practises. If you were as powerful as he was, your actions spoke for themselves.

So he gazed at Angel and he saw into him, the wisps of his soul quivering and dancing within. It was abstract, and yet the longer Alastor Looked the closer the pink-and-white tendrils took form. A spider, Alastor realized, almost unrecognizable because its legs were bound to its body by something dark. A dark, dark red shape, closer to a ruddy brown, had six limbs wrapped tight around Angel’s soul. This was the tick that was Valentino, feeding off Angel.

Alastor wondered, for a brief moment, what Angel Dust might be capable of without this malicious force constantly restraining him, draining him. He’d like to find out, and train whatever potential was there. There was a chance they could do wondrous things together.

_If we are to survive this._

“I’m going to try and remove it,” Alastor warned. He heard his voice distantly. “Be still.”

Angel braced himself and, puppeting his shadow, Alastor reached within him. The spider-soul shuddered, but not in fear. Even after their short time together, Angel’s soul recognized Alastor’s shadow. It _trusted_ him. Silently, the little ethereal spider cried out to him, begging him to save it from this fate that had befallen it.

For the first time in decades, a fracture splintered its way over Alastor’s heart.

His shadow’s claws were fine, fine blades. There was no space at all between spider and tick, but he tried to shove his fingers in anyway, desperate to pry them apart. The spider flailed in agony, and Angel himself jolted with the pain of it. Alastor had to fight to remain steady. _Begone._ He got only the tips of his claws in, around the bulbous body of this swollen tick. He pulled, but he could already tell it was no use. They could not be separated this way; to try was only to harm the spider.

He touched its tiny face, in apology. Eight eyes closed, in acceptance.

Then Alastor was back in his own body, watching Angel stagger away from him, holding his hands to his chest and gasping for breath. Alastor stepped closer to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach out and provide a comforting touch. Such things were only just beginning to be possible. If only this had happened months or years down the line, when their relationship could perhaps be a stable thing, a constant. When Alastor knew what he was capable of, and was not still figuring himself out like a man at the start of his life rather than well past the end of it.

Not for the first time, he thought, _Angel deserves better._

But Alastor was all he had, now. He had to be good enough.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, even though he knew it was a poor condolence.

“It’s fine,” Angel said, and cleared his throat. “I’m fine. Try it again.”

“No. That way won’t work.” Alastor’s hands were fisted at his sides; he brought one up, studying it, his gloves and his claws. “. . . I had thought that way would be best. But I suppose, if finesse won’t do the trick, perhaps brute force is the answer.”

Angel looked up with a bit of fear in his eyes, but it didn’t come into his voice. “Okay. Do it.”

Alastor hesitated. “It will be painful.”

Angel put his hands on his hips again, this time beckoning with the others. A sly grin worked its way over his face. “I’m ready for ya, baby.”

Before Alastor changed his mind, he spread his fingers.

Angel’s whole body arched, eyes and mouth open wide. The spider was screaming.

Alastor wanted the tick to scream. He clenched his fist so hard blood clouded the air around it.

_Begone._

He could feel it.

_Get out._

The tick.

_Parasite._

Angel’s good eye was bloodshot.

And he wasn’t breathing.

Alastor released his hand and leapt to catch Angel before he could fall. He didn’t think about the touch now, just carried him to the bed and gently set him down. Angel was gasping, heart hammering in Alastor’s ears. Alastor stood by, watching guiltily. He should have relented sooner. He should have sensed it wouldn’t work and admitted defeat. He . . .

Angel looked up at him, a little woozy. “It didn’t work, did it?”

Alastor shook his head.

Angel nodded, gaze falling. “Well . . . what next?”

Alastor wanted to just say _no._ This was already too much for Angel. It was an impossible task, Alastor _knew_ that. He’d forever scorned those who lauded the power of hope. Hope was a placebo effect at best and a tumor at worst. Just because he hoped this would work did not mean it magically would. He couldn’t do it. They were doomed—him to die, and Angel to . . . to do whatever Val asked of him until he grew bored and decided to find a new vassal.

_No._ But what else was there? He couldn’t— 

Well. There was one thing.

“Smiles?” Angel prompted, looking at him again.

Alastor took a deep, buzzing breath. “I know of one other thing we could try. But it will be painful—”

“I know that by now,” Angel said. “I picked up on the pattern.”

“Not like the others. A different pain.” Alastor clasped his hands behind his back. “The body suffers from physical pain. The soul suffers from emotional pain. My . . . theory is if we cause your soul enough emotional pain, it will reject Valentino’s hold.”

A completely unfounded theory. He was basing it off only the suffering he himself had felt, and the disconnect from his powers it always caused him. If he could drive Angel’s soul off-kilter enough, _maybe_ it would become too unwieldy for the tick to hold on to. But it was a massive _maybe._

Angel sat up against the pillows at the head of the bed. He pressed his lips together, then asked hesitantly, “How, uh, how would you do that? Give me, y’know, emotional pain?”

“Memories,” Alastor replied. “Bad memories.”

They looked at each other.

They had never mutually agreed to a friendship, let alone a relationship. They had never told each other the deepest truths of how they felt. They had only _touched_ a few times in a mutual way. And now Alastor was proposing they delve into the darkest recesses of Angel’s past.

Angel tipped up his chin. “We gotta try.”

_Have you ever been this brave?_

Alastor inclined his head to Angel. They did have to try. Hell was full of sinners Alastor couldn’t care less about, but he’d opened his heart just enough. Charlie, Husk, Angel Dust himself . . . He wouldn’t sit by and let them suffer, and he certainly wouldn’t go down without a fight against Vox and Val.

So Alastor stepped over to Angel and rested a light hand on the top of his head. Angel looked up at him, meeting his gaze solemnly. Angel wasn’t supposed to be this serious. Alastor hated seeing him without sparkling eyes just as much as Angel hated seeing Alastor without a smile. Alastor took a deep breath. This time, as the magic took hold, Angel didn’t gasp. Didn’t writhe. Just held Alastor with his gaze, even as the hotel room faded away around them.

When they finally looked up, there was only the bed left. Alastor stood beside it, both of them floating in darkness. Only three strides away, another bed floated, bathed in ugly fluorescent light. A hospital bed, an IV stand beside it, a wrinkled woman and a young man at her side. Angel’s face clouded with sorrow as he recognized these two, and Alastor could only assume: his grandmother, and Angel himself. Young, fourteen at the most, with fluffy blond hair swept across his forehead. He was crying, this innocent, in the memory. The old woman wasn’t breathing.

It didn’t linger, but that was by design. Alastor was out of control, now. He’d done the magical equivalent of spinning his hand in settled water; whatever sediment swirled to the top was beyond him. By design: these bad memories couldn’t linger long enough for Angel to reach closure with them. They could only linger long enough to cause pain, then float away again.

The next memory was that blond boy but older, closer to sixteen now, standing with a gun in his burning hands and tears in his eyes. Another man was there, dead on the ground, blood pooling around him. The horror on the boy’s face said all Alastor needed to know. He looked back at Angel, the demon, who hadn’t moved from the bed. He was watching, though, watching with tears in his mismatched eyes. Alastor looked back and now the boy was covered in blood, holding his little trembling hands over a gushing wound in the stomach of another boy who looked eerily similar. Older, though, and stockier. A brother? A member of his family, in any case, breathing his last breath under Angel’s hands. And then . . .

Music began to play.

Angel made a sound, for the first time. No words. Just a whimper.

Alastor watched as the shadows took form into a lovely scene: wedding music, long white tables laden with food and finery, children laughing, adults reminiscing, and in the middle of it all was that pretty young man. Truly a man, now, fully grown and bright-eyed and, Alastor realized, drunk. He crossed the dancefloor on unsteady legs, over to a man whose face came in and out of focus. For a second, a handsome older man; then the fangs of Valentino; then the human man again, who smiled when Angel stumbled into him and he caught him.

_Dance with me, Anthony._

Angel was shuddering with stifled sobs, but he didn’t cover his face. He watched, even as tears streamed down his cheeks, as his human self joined hands with this man. All around him, the wedding scene began to corrupt. The white tablecloths bloomed bloodstains. The music clanged and stuttered, discordant and failing. The guests were all staring now, no one speaking; even the children grew still and took notice. They all watched as this man and this boy slowly rotated across the dancefloor and, lost in their own hazey world, kissed each other.

It was only for a second.

A peck, nothing more.

But that was enough.

Curses and slurs flew, women screamed, and the man was engulfed in fists and weapons. The boy was grabbed by two who shared his eyes, cousins or brothers perhaps, who jostled and half-carried him out of the venue, to an alley a street away. They beat him without mercy, with their fists while he could still stand and with their feet when he could no longer rise. Alastor had seen all sorts of mutilation in his day, but he had never cared for this sort. He preferred his tools to be sharp and his cuts precise. This was stupid, mindless pulping of a boy who had done nothing wrong but be himself.

Eventually, he dragged himself out of the alley. He went to a door, then another, then another. No one would welcome him. So finally he tried a street corner instead, and this gave him more luck. He ended up rotting away in a man’s basement, only lucid in the brief moments after a man was done fucking him or right before his pimp slid a needle between his fingers.

And then they were just in silent darkness. Alastor turned back to face Angel. He felt like he was seeing double—no, triple. He saw Angel the demon, the soul-spider within him, and the human boy all together, all trembling. Suffering. Angel wiped his eyes again and again, but the tears wouldn’t stop coming. Alastor realized his hands were half-lifted at his sides; he wanted to reach out to him, wanted to give comfort. He’d seen the worst of Angel, what had brought him to hell, and all he could do was feel sadness. This, their last-ditch attempt, had been for nought. His mouth opened and he realized the words on his tongue were _I’m sorry._

Angel lifted his head suddenly. “Al?”

Almost delayed, Alastor hear it. The music. The song he would not listen to.

_Dear face that holds so sweet a smile for me_

_Were you not mine, how dark this world would be_

The cold hand of death stroked its way down Alastor’s spine.

_I know no light that could replace_

_Love’s radiant sunshine in your lovely face_

Angel was watching him, but he didn’t look. He just turned, slowly, slowly, and there it was. A different little boy, auburn-haired and spectacled, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his radio. It was loud enough to cause discomfort, but he still turned the knob. The song blared louder. The shouting from the kitchen didn’t stop, it just changed direction.

_“ALASTOR! TURN OFF THAT DAMN RADIO!”_

Alastor’s claws cut into his palms.

The knob wouldn’t go any further, but the boy still tried to turn it, his eyes closed. Desperate to hear anything other than— 

_“CAN’T HEAR MYSELF THINK IN THIS HOUSE!”_

_Shadows may fall across the land and sea_

_“THAT’S IT!”_

_Sunshine from all the world may hidden be_

Alastor closed his eyes, but there was no point. He still heard every blow of the belt.

_But I shall see no clouds across the sun_

It lasted longer than he thought. When his father finally left, Alastor opened his eyes again. The boy lay there on the floor, welts throbbing on his back—but that wasn’t why he wept. He cried for the radio, smashed to bits by that monster, silenced beyond repair.

The scene vanished into shadow.

“Al,” Angel whispered, barely audible. A thin rasp of pure sympathy.

Alastor did not have the wide variety of emotionally rife memories that Angel did, but he would try to make this fair. If they were all doomed, they might as well settle their scores while they still had time. He considered showing Angel the memory of murdering his father, but he didn’t want to show such brutality. It hadn’t been a quick death.

So, instead, he just brought them to the day he had kept well away from his thoughts until tonight, when he saw the horror Vox had made of Velvet. Alastor’s human self—his true self, perhaps, though that felt a little too poetic—was staggering back from what would be his last kill, a messy smile on a face speckled with blood. He wiped his knife clean on a rag he kept in his pocket, then sheathed it and buttoned his coat. It was winter, but that didn’t mean much in New Orleans. The man who had just drowned in his own blood was an infamous dog fighter, and Alastor now crossed the basement to where the dogs were pacing in their cages. Only when he drew closer did they begin to bark, frothing at their jowls. Alastor imagined the dogs finally feasting on the man who had tormented them for years and smiled at the vengeance of it. He released the latches and flung the doors open.

The dogs were on him in seconds. He only had time to say, “No, wait—”

And then he was on the floor, and the beasts were snarling and snapping and it was far, far too long before he was dead.

The Radio Demon observed this corpse with the lower half of his face torn off and let the song speak through him, softly: _“Your smile shall light my life til life is done.”_

The basement faded into darkness.

Silence.

Then: “Alastor.”

He turned. Angel was there on the bed, still watching him. His tears were dry. He didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything beyond holding out his arms. Four offerings of peace, and the warmth at their center.

This wasn’t the previous touches Angel had tried to give Alastor. There was no flirtation, no ulterior motive, no exchange of power. It wasn’t something that would become a stroke, or a kiss, or anything that would come between them and slither across Alastor’s skin, wrong no matter how much he wanted it to be right.

It was just a hug.

The hotel room returned around them, along with the pattering of rain and another roll of thunder. Alastor couldn’t be sure how much time had passed, but it didn’t matter. Vox would be here soon, and probably Val too if he discovered Angel was no longer in his room. There wasn’t enough of him to stop them both.

Alastor joined Angel on the bed and leaned into him. Four arms wrapped around him and, after a moment’s hesitation, he put his own around Angel. Doom was on its way, and Alastor had been overwhelmingly honest, but he still hadn’t told Angel about this feeling in his heart.

“Thank you,” Angel whispered.

Alastor didn’t move his chin from Angel’s shoulder. “For what?”

“For tryin’ to help me.” Angel paused, then held Alastor tighter. “For thinkin’ I was worth helpin’.”

Alastor breathed in. He breathed out.

He turned his head so his lips rested against Angel’s neck. Angel sighed, melting into his touch. Once again, as always, Alastor found himself wishing he could do more.

Vox kicked down the door.


	7. Chapter 7

“Y0u.KNow-y0U.cAn’t_win,” Vox said. He stood in the doorway, body silhouetted but screen aglow. “K33p-thIs.ShoRt/aNd/sW33t.”

“And get the fuck away from him,” said Val, pushing in beside Vox. He held a hand out to Angel and left no room for negotiation in his voice. “Get over here. Now.”

Alastor glared at Vox. Angel glared at Val. Nobody moved.

“Angel.” Valentino’s eyes narrowed. His voice was just as thin, but rough. Full of razor blades.

Angel held his breath. The last time he dared to meet Valentino’s gaze when he was angry like this . . . he could still feel the back of the pimp’s hand where it had struck his face. _No sass._ But this was the end of everything. Angel had just watched the worst of his memories, the things that had led to the end of his human life. He hadn’t been happy, then. If he couldn’t be happy now, he didn’t want this. It wasn’t worth it.

Valentino wasn’t even worth his words. Angel didn’t say a thing, just stayed silent, grounded by Alastor’s tense arm on the small of his back and the faint, strained hum of the radio.

“D0N’t-maKe-M3-wa1T.” Vox removed the gun from his jacket and pointed it at Alastor. “Y0U/KnEW.thiS-DaY_WoUld-C0me.”

Angel looked at Alastor. The Radio Demon hadn’t moved, but he was tense as a snare, dial-eyes trained on Vox. He was smiling, now, lips peeled far back from his teeth. After seeing the handsome man Alastor had been when he wore a human face, this was a haunting mask. He wasn’t an overlord, wasn’t even a demon. He was just a monster.

Vox lost his patience. Valentino’s cry of _Don’t hit Angel!_ was lost to the roar of gunfire.

Bullets left holes in the bed and the wall, but Alastor was gone. No, not gone—Angel saw the shadow rising behind Vox, and then—

An explosion of electricity and white noise, and all three of them crashed clean through the window.

For a split second, Angel was frozen in shock. Then he jumped up, ran to what had once been glass and leaned out to see. Below, in the courtyard, Alastor and Vox were fighting. It was difficult to tell how much damage they were truly doing to each other; they tossed themselves this way and that, and everything they summoned was vanished just as swiftly by their opponent. They were equally matched, at least that’s how it seemed to Angel. Their tussling was flashy and loud—both overlords had their speakers blaring—but incomprehensible.

A different sort of movement caught his eye at the edge of their bloodstained arena. Valentino, already sopping with the rain, bent down to retrieve the pistol Vox must have dropped when they fell. Angel didn’t even have time to give warning. Val aimed and fired.

Alastor crumpled, and Vox was on him.

Angel’s heart leapt into his mouth. There was no time to run for the stairs or the elevator. He was two storeys up, but he didn’t care. He yanked off his gloves and climbed out the window. His grip wasn’t sure in the slightest—everything slick with bloodrain—but he was in too much of a hurry to care. He climbed and slid and fell down, and though pain throbbed in his legs when he landed he pushed through it. Ran to Val. Snatched the gun from his hand.

“You fucking bitch,” Valentino snarled. “What do you think you’re gonna do? Shoot Vox with his own gun? You think he’s an idiot?”

 _No._ And Angel wasn’t, either. Not anymore.

He held the gun to his temple.

Now Val’s eyes went round, and he screamed: “Vox!”

Angel risked a glance toward the fighting overlords. They were upright, now, Vox holding Alastor aloft by his lapels. Deep claw marks scored the front of Vox’s suit. Alastor’s face was difficult to distinguish beneath all the blood; it was impossible to tell how much had come from the sky and how much had been brought out by Vox’s fists. His head had been rolled to one side, limp, but when Vox looked over, Alastor followed his gaze. His head lifted, even though it made him wince. Angel saw the glint of his eyes, his true eyes, and their wide epiphany as he realized what Angel intended to do.

Angel was afraid, too. Of course he was. But Alastor had just shown him how to be brave. Alastor had just shown him what his life was worth. If he couldn’t be happy— _If I can’t be with you, sweetheart, it ain’t worth it._

“No,” Alastor said, and his fear broadcasted it loud enough that Angel heard it perfectly, “wait—”

It only took two seconds for Angel to fire two bullets: one into Val’s head, and one into his own.


	8. Chapter 8

For one pure moment, there was nothing.

Then Angel and Valentino both fell to the ground like crumpled cloths.

Angel was dead.

Angel was gone.

_ Angel. _

Vox’s grip went slack and Alastor dropped. He stumbled, but stayed upright; Vox wasn’t hurting him anymore, so his body could focus on healing the gunshot. But he himself could only focus on—

Angel was dead.

Vox was in no better state. He scrambled over to Valentino’s body, tripping over himself in his haste, and skidded to his knees. He pulled at the pimp, tugged his shoulders onto his lap, framed his face in shaking hands. “V-#^A_l,” he said, but sorrow had glitched his voice nearly beyond recognition. “B-xB-xxB_@%_b.y.”

His screen blizzarded with static, but through it Alastor could see the memories flashing by, images and GIFs and videos of Valentino all seen through Vox’s mechanical eye, the pimp smiling and laughing and waking in a plush bed . . .

Alastor turned away. He would not watch it. Could not.

He just stepped over to Angel’s body and looked down at him. The bullet had a clean path through his head, an entry and exit hole. He hadn’t been ravaged, other than that. He was not left as Velvet had been, as Vox’s other victims undoubtedly had. He was still himself, his beautiful self. His eyes were closed. His lips slightly parted. His limbs flung this way and that. He could have been asleep, tangled in the sheets.

Alastor heard himself, a pale morning weeks past, after volunteering to wake an Angel who was late to breakfast.  _ Good morning, Angel.  _ And the spider demon’s response, smirking sleepily up at him.  _ Don’t that sound sweet. You wanna help me up?  _ And Alastor had, untangling all of the arms from the sheets.  _ What a web you’ve woven yourself into, spider. _

And wasn’t that the truth. A small part of Alastor did grieve, now, for what had become of himself, of Vox, of everyone in hell. Look at how they had weakened themselves, feeling for others as they did. Alastor had known Vox many years now, and he had never imagined the TV demon on his knees, speakers spewing that ugly virtual sobbing, looping a thousand heartbreaks for only Alastor to hear. It was pitiful.

Alastor looked at Angel, lifeless Angel. And he realized:  _ I have never given you enough credit, my dear. _

Because he knew. He knew Alastor couldn’t defeat them both. But without Val? With Vox already half destroyed? With not fear, now, trembling in Alastor’s heart, but only the cold steel of vengeance?

Alastor held up his hand. His microphone appeared in it, glowing the red of fresh blood. Showtime.

_ “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.” _

Vox looked up.

_ “SAINTS AND SINNERS ALIKE.” _

Vox winced as interference prickled through his body. This was deafening. The Radio Demon was broadcasting louder than ever before. Not a single worthless soul in Hell could keep from listening. Alastor was practically shaking with the power of it, but when he turned around, his grin was unwavering.

_ “I AM ALASTOR, YOUR CORDIAL HOST, AND IT IS MY PERSONAL DELIGHT TO WELCOME YOU TO TONIGHT’S PROGRAM.” _

Vox stood on unsteady legs. “AL-l-A*S_t0r,” he managed, holding up bloody hands. A long delayed peace offering. “L1sTeN_B-BudDY_w3^BoTH-L0ST-T-T0Ni#gHt—”

Alastor laughed. He laughed some more. He was still laughing when he’d crossed to where Vox stood. He finally stopped when he grabbed Vox by the throat with his free hand, and the feedback wailed from Alastor’s microphone to Vox’s speakers.

Alastor observed the  _ Civil Danger Warning _ banner streaming over Vox’s screen, then brought him close enough so he could see the reflection of his grin. They were both soaked in blood, but that was only the start.

Vox took his Angel. He would soon know how losing truly felt.

_ “THIS, MY DEAR FRIENDS, IS THE END OF THE OVERLORDS OF HELL.” _


	9. Chapter 9

Alastor’s senses returned to him slowly, one by one. First he heard the thrumming hiss of the cursed bloodrain. Then he smelled it, the coppery tang of death. Then, oddly, he tasted: blood and something bitter, like motor oil. Lastly, his eyes shifted back to normal and he saw what had become of the courtyard.

A crater was left at its heart, pooling with toxic black blood. Bleeding out, the final sparks fizzling around his body, was Vox. His chest had been torn open; his blue-black lungs lay a few feet away, collapsed, emptied of air. His heart was nowhere to be seen, and Alastor got the feeling that the aftertaste in his mouth was not just from black magic. Most noticable, however, was Vox’s head. It no longer rested at the top of his neck. It sat, in fact, on the ground at Alastor’s feet. Frayed wires and tissue dangled from the base of the screen, which itself was blank, blanker than just blank. Empty. Off. Permanently off.

Vox was dead.

After decades of circling each other, observing each other, challenging each other. It was over.

Alastor turned.

Angel’s body was still lying there. He was so wet with the bloodrain, he was almost completely crimson now.

Alastor walked over to him and only now did he let himself drop to his knees, gathering the spider demon up into his arms. There was no worry for touch. This was Angel, and yet it wasn’t even that anymore. Alastor’s heart ached,  _ ached.  _ He couldn’t bear this. Hell was safe. Charlie would lead a new, better world down here. But Alastor . . .

They’d only just begun. How was he supposed to do find salvation without an angel?

He bowed his head, burying his face in Angel’s hair. It still smelled sweet, under all this suffering. Alastor actually felt tears rising in his chest.  _ I’m so sorry, my dear. I’m so, so sorry. _

__ Then.

He felt it. Something.

A tiny something. Less than movement. Less than a twitch. Just the faintest, barest  _ something. _

Alastor didn’t think he would ever live long enough to feel a miracle.

He Looked, and he saw: the soul-spider, somehow, was cupped in his shadow’s hands. Its pink was bleached nearly white, and its white was faded. It was free of the tick, but it wasn’t moving. All eight eyes were closed. But it was there.

Alastor knew what had to be done. He would have hesitated, before; he may not even have toyed with the possibility, before. But he had to do it. Alastor had preached much of his human life and all of his afterlife that one was never fully dressed without a smile, but Angel had taught him the truth of that. It didn’t matter if you looked happy on the outside. If you weren’t happy within, then what was the point?

This had to work. He needed it to.

“Take it,” he said, his throat left raw from his broadcast. “All that I have, Angel. Take it. Please. If I can’t have you, I don’t want any of this. I want you  _ more.  _ Do you hear me?  _ I want you. _

__ _ “So, please,”  _ he whispered against Angel’s forehead.  _ “Take it.” _

His shadow watched him a moment longer, then leant forward to place the soul back into Angel’s chest.

Alastor’s scream was so loud and agonized, it startled even him. His throat was truly raw now; he tasted his own blood. He screamed, and  _ screamed.  _ He’d been eaten alive, and this was more painful than that. He felt like the very marrow was being sucked out of his bones. Tears pricked his eyes, pain beyond pain, beyond composure, beyond sense. All he could do was hold on and scream and— 

“What’s all the yellin’ about?”

Alastor went numb. His vision returned to bloodshot eyes.

Angel blinked, bleary, and looked up at him. “Hi. Did we win?”

Alastor couldn’t speak. He was stripped of his power, of everything that made him an overlord. He’d put everything into Angel; all he’d kept was his love for him. But that was enough to keep him alive. That was all he needed.

Alastor crushed them together. Angel squeaked in surprise, then wrapped all his arms around Alastor. “I coulda sworn,” he said softly, “I died a while ago.”

“You did,” Alastor agreed. “Welcome to Heaven.”

Angel laughed; Alastor felt it in his heart. “This place is pretty shitty for Heaven,” Angel remarked, helping Alastor to his feet. He was as unsteady on his legs as a new colt. “Hey—it ain’t rainin’ anymore!”

He was right. The sky was clear overhead, and bright. The bloodrain was soaking swiftly into the ground. Somehow, there was no trace of it on Alastor or Angel’s clothes. Had the miracle cleansed them? Alastor thought he understood magic, but he’d been wrong. He wasn’t nearly as smart as he thought he was. He’d relinquished his titles. No longer overlord, no longer killer. He was just a man who, against all odds, had fallen in love.

“Oh, fuck me,” Angel said, noticing Vox and his head. “Did you do that?”

Alastor nodded. “I think so.”

Angel raised his eyebrows. “Maybe that was overkill . . . Actually, nah. He deserved it.” He tilted his head. “So, everything’s okay, now?”

Alastor nodded again. “Everything is fine.”

How glorious it was to be able to say that.

“We got a fresh start on our hands,” Angel said, two of his own hands on his hips. His snuck a wink to Alastor. “Those are pretty entertainin’.”

Alastor’s heart sang, and with it, so did his speakers. He wasn’t entirely powerless, then; even after all this, he was still the Radio Demon.

_ Give me a smile, the love-light of your eyes _

_ Life could not hold a sweeter paradise _

“In that case,” Alastor said, offering a hand. “May I have this dance, my dear?”

Memories flickered through both of them, but they couldn’t be hurt now. They were too alive for the past to haunt them anymore. There was only the future now, unspooling before them in an endless golden thread.

“Oh,” Angel said, and took his hand. “What the hell.”

_ Give me the right to love you all the while _

_ My world forever, the sunshine of your smile. _


End file.
